And war came.
Not against Sophia, because Lorenzo had made that impossible enough to deter the first wave. Against his businesses, his routes, his old alliances. Two port shipments were sabotaged. A Moretti restaurant in River North had its windows shot out after closing. An associate disappeared for eleven hours and returned with a broken nose and a message: Give us the auditor’s location. Lorenzo did not. He also did not tell Sophia. She learned from the news, from Emma, from the nervous way FBI agents avoided certain questions. When Lorenzo finally came to the safe apartment three weeks after her discharge—only after her attorney called to say he requested permission—Sophia opened the door herself, wearing sweatpants, a wrist brace, and anger sharpened by fear.
“You said no men would follow me unless I requested it,” she said. Lorenzo stood in the hallway holding no flowers, no gifts, no apology disguised as a grand gesture. Just himself, which was somehow harder to face. “They aren’t following you.” “But people are dying around you because of me.” “No. They are dying around me because of Victor’s organization and mine have been poisoning this city for years.” “Don’t make this noble.” “I’m not.” His eyes moved over her face, not hungrily, not possessively, but like a man checking that a candle had not gone out. “I came to tell you I’m leaving Chicago for a while.” That stopped her. “What?” “The federal case needs my cooperation. Officially, I am a confidential source in several ongoing investigations. Unofficially, every old wolf in the city wants to know if I’ve become weak.” “Have you?” His mouth almost curved. “Yes.” She hated the way that answer hurt. “Because of me?” “Because I finally care whether my survival deserves to continue.” Sophia looked down the hallway to make sure no neighbor was listening, then stepped back. “Come in before Mrs. Donnelly in 4B decides you’re here to collect rent.”
The apartment was small but warm, with a view of a brick wall and a slice of Lake Michigan between buildings if you stood at the right angle. Lorenzo looked absurdly out of place inside it. Too dark, too controlled, too expensive for secondhand furniture and Emma’s half-built bookshelf. Sophia remained standing. “You’re cooperating with the FBI?” “Yes.” “Since when?” “Before the warehouse. After I learned Ivanoff had infiltrated city contracts tied to port shipments.” “That’s why you were there.” “Yes.” She leaned against the table. “Did you know my audit was connected?” “Not until that night.” His voice lowered. “If I had known you were involved—” “You would have done what? Locked me in a safe house? Sent me away? Decided for me again?” He fell silent. Sophia nodded. “At least you’re learning.” “Slowly.” “Painfully.” “For both of us.”
He told her enough. Not everything. Enough. The Italian Syndicate was not one clean machine under his command but a network of businesses, loyalties, debts, old criminals, newer criminals, legitimate fronts, semi-legitimate partnerships, and family obligations that had rotted into power. Lorenzo had inherited it at twenty-nine after his father was murdered outside a church in Bridgeport. At first, he survived by being colder than every man who tested him. Then survival became identity. He cleaned some businesses, cut others loose, invested in restaurants, freight, construction, and legal security firms, but the old blood remained in the walls. “I thought I could turn the ship slowly,” he said. “Without sinking everyone on board.” Sophia sat across from him. “And now?” “Now I think the ship was built from bodies. Maybe it should sink.” She watched him, searching for Enzo, fearing Lorenzo, seeing both and trusting neither fully. “That sounds like confession.” “It is.” “To me?” “To myself. You’re just unfortunate enough to hear it.”
He left Chicago two days later under federal protection that was not called protection because men like Lorenzo did not receive that word easily. Sophia did not say goodbye in person. She told herself that was strength. Then, when his plane lifted from Midway, she sat on the kitchen floor and cried so hard Emma found her there with the kettle screaming. “Do you want me to hate him harder?” Emma asked gently. Sophia laughed through tears. “Maybe later.” “Do you want tea?” “Yes.” “Do you want to admit you love him?” “Absolutely not.” Emma nodded. “Tea first, denial second.”
